Mark Seliger
Justin Theroux is ensconced in his Greenwich Village duplex. It’s the middle of February, “the shortest and the cruelest” of months, he says. We’re talking over Zoom. He’s wearing a black T-shirt over his non–dad bod, a black beanie, and, despite the waning daylight, tinted aviators. A russet beard covers his unfrivolous jaw. Behind him, there’s a glass case displaying wax molds of syphilitic mouths. He takes frequent drags from a Juul to supplement a steady supply of Nicorette; he quit vaping when the pandemic began and only recently resumed. “I reserve it for the evening hours,” he says, as if voicing an infomercial. It’s 3:30 p.m., close enough. He holds up a piece of gum. “Whereas the minute I open my eyes, I put this in.”